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Step by Step/Issue 49
This is Issue #49 of ''Step by Step''. This is the first issue of Volume Nine. Dark Country ---- The town of Smith's Ferry no longer had a wall. The streets were open and flourishing under the new morning sky, a bum sitting on the sidewalk playing a soothing tune. The stores were silent, open but quiet. Children and their mothers walked the sidewalks, and the men wore hats, sitting on a bench, here and there. The streets were clean, shiny but a little too clean. Standing in the town square, no eye saw a fence or a wall. The closest threat was a chore left undone, a cheating husband, perhaps. A watchtower gallantly stood at the town's edge, a tent upright at its base. Red Smith stood inside at a table meant for dining, but now it was draped with the cloth of a map, needles sticking out in particular areas. He was a man studying his next move, glory in his eyes, comfort in his heart. A pair of wrinkles blemished his face, jowls fattened, looking heavier. The tent, decorated with a statue of an old imperator in the corner, was overwhelmed with bones, hanging on strings from the ceiling. The soldiers protested at first, but he had insisted that the bones belonged to him, as spoils of war. One skull hung menacingly across the table. A noise, a chirp. Red looked to the tent entrance. A slight annoyance. No one to mess with him. He had a guard outside on watch. Red was concentrated on the map, a game of chess, checkmate here, ha. A maze of thoughts, uncalculated and calculated moves. The map was caffeine, a morning brush of coffee, keeping him up through the night. Such nights produced greatness. The food on the table was good, an assortment of pastries and a glass of wine. A good sip of it now. It tasted aged, had a strong punch. It was heavy in his stomach, but he had good heart. It was a beast, that heart, which he had tamed over the years, months of hell and conquest, their worth proving now. Red, focusing, rose a hand to his mouth, burping. He eyed a pair of dice on the table. The map covered a great stretch of land. A green needle marked the city of the state map, the center. To the south, a group purple needles, each pinned in close proximity, representing his land, the land of his family, of the people. But was he of the people, yet? Took another sip of wine. Running low on wine. Looked to the map. Closed in. Each purple needle, of which there were four, represented his territory, his towns, innocent blemishes of life in the expanse of decomposition across the state. Red loved the map, it was perfect. Gave him a rush of speed through his old veins, out with the dust. Dust. Once the dust had settled, the surrounding towns had been easy pickings. He grabbed the pair of dice, burped, shook a roll, releasing the dice across the map. A three and a four. Red grinned and laughed, burping, clearing a bubble in his throat's mucus. A stray golden needle rested on the tabletop. Red scanned the map, grabbed it, found a spot, raised the needle, and went to mark it. "Visitors to see the king!" Red looked up, his eyes glossy. Something tickled his cheek. A mosquito. He wiped his face, and his hand was suddenly wet with tears. "Proceed," he barked, getting up from the table, his belly a protruding mass. The tent opened up by way of the guard's hand, and in entered the guard clad in a heavy breastplate, flanked by three men, a raggedy slave and two brothers. The slave entered, walking beyond the others, and bowed his head in respect. He was of slim statute, face clean of hair, yet ugly with rubbery, white scars from slashings of long ago. "Good morning," said the other men. "It is a good morning," said Red. He looked to the raggedy slave, his head shaved until the scalp like that of a Christian monk's, perhaps for fleas or lice. The servant lifted his head, eyes gaunt with hot rims, his cheeks sunken, but his body healthy for a slave, given his kind fared off nightly soup. "Slave, what upsets the slave?" asked Red, but the servant remained quiet. "Don't hold your tongue," said the second man, balding in the front with the leftover hair combed back. "Speak, or I's cut it off." "A nightmare," said the slave, "a nightmare haunts my eyes." "Look up, lift your head, slave," said the balding man. "Let him be, Timothy," said Red, walking from around the desk. "A nightmare haunts your eyes, slave, do tell." The servant lifted his head, eyes gaunt with hot rims, his cheeks sunken, but his body healthy for a slave, given his kind fared off nightly soup. "We come with his message," said the third man, Lucas, the brother. "Boy's been like this for better part of a week," said Timothy. "Got worse last night." "When it rained," said Lucas. "But it must mean something, what he's seen." "It's not important," said the slave. "Appears that way," said Red, yawning. "Tell him what you saw." "I don't want to." "Then I'll gladly make you," said Timothy, stepping forward to the slave, quickly elbowing him in the back, dropping him to his knees. "Save yourself from hell, tell him your dream." "His nightmare," said Lucas. Red, watching the circus, covered his yawn with a hand, rubbed his eyes, and laughed. "You bring me a slave who has nightmares—is this a joke, gentlemen?" "With respect," said Lucas, bowing his head. "Rockefeller, we beg your pardon, but this slave has accurate dreams, prophecies of sorts, he's a prophet. Talked of a red moon, a red sky, or whatever, and we got that, remember?" "I do." "He said that drought'd end last night, and it did," said Timothy, going to grab the slave to lift him up. "Let him be," said Red, swaying him away with a fat hand, approaching the slave, and the brothers took steps backward, his body menacing, a heat of fear it emitted. He looked down to meet the slave. "Slave, are you a prophet?" "They say I am." "Who?" "My fellow slaves." "Now, what do you say?" "I don't know if I am." "You must know," said Red, scoffing, patting the servant on his cheek, "for these gentlemen to disturb my tranquility, you must be a prophet." "He is what he is," said Timothy. "A Nostradamus." "Abraham, Moses, or better," added Lucas, saving face. "Sleep came upon me last night," began the slave, looking up to Red, a bliss in his eyes, seemingly ignoring the presence of the brothers. "A king'll repent shortly after the sun sets," said the slave, "that he didn't have the cock to put his enemy to death, but he's surrounded by knives, friends who disguise their actions, and one of them will die by envy, the other by treachery." "A conspiracy against the king?" said Lucas. "Which friends?" "Talk clearly, boy," said Timothy. "Let him be," said Red. "A poor family, I saw with my eyes, traveling through great calamity, to see the coffin of the deceased king, wounded and naked first on horseback, chased by swords, only to pass in the warmth of a bed." "He offends," said Timothy. "Continue, no offense was given, continue," Red said, nodding. "That was my nightmare," said the slave. "Continue with more." "Peace will be offered, and the city will prosper, the enemies very far from home. This, after the king's passing." "How long from now?" The slave nodded disapprovingly. "Forget that now, but, soon, I tell you, a latter-day king will unite his princes to dine. The womanizer will leave his seat, and the woman will take it. The bird will be early, and an ancient wound will do worse than any enemy's sword, but one prince will break his infancy, the other his heart, as the herd travels into repentance." "I'm confused," said Lucas. "You didn't tell us any of that." "It's good enough," said Timothy, looking to Red. "You see what we mean, he's a prophet!" "Yeah," said Lucas. "Now what do we do about this?" "Take him back to his cesspit," growled Red, "and never bring him back." "Pardon me," said the slave. "No way," said Timothy. "You don't trust us? "I've seen enough tomfoolery so early in the day. Take him back, and fill your mouths with his shit, gentlemen. You've wasted my precious time with the drunken wisdom of a filthy slave." "He ain't a filthy slave, is your family's servant." "Cleon's servant," Lucas clarified. "But sir, how come he guessed right about the drought ending, the red sky?" "Like you said, he guessed." "I did not," blurted the slave. "You can say what you wish about what I saw, but I saw what I saw, it's real." "Enough, slave," Red barked, dismissing him with a wave of the fat hand before walking behind his table. "What is the slave's name?" "You'll regret this, sir," said Lucas. "His prophecies are right." Red shot him a mean-eyed look. "We ain't know his name," said Timothy, and Lucas glanced at him angrily before breaking past him, dashing out the tent. "He's a bitch," said Red. "He's a bitch, a mutt. Get him out of my sight." "That's fine with me, take it up with your son." "Nephew." "Right." "Where did my nephew find such a drunkard of a slave?" "Thank you, sir," said the slave. "Take him away," Red barked. "You grab your little brother by the balls next time he dares insult me so unhesitatingly. Regret is a strong threat, and I figured he the brains to know enough." "Your will, my hands," said Timothy, heaving Malcolm upward and beginning to drag him out the tent. "Ay, I'll come him down some, sir." "You do that." "Night and day," Timothy said, "you are my king." Red, sitting down at his table, looked to the balding brother, and grinned, and as he did that, his faithful soldier grinned right back and exited the tent with the poor slave king. ----The skull strung up in front of the table, his bone features painful and harsh, a shadow of mankind in Red's presence, watched the king as he inspected the map on the table. The visitors had brought him a sour gift, the slave, departing him with a bad taste in his mouth. He had thought long about the slave, his prophecies, their worth, and now as he grasped the golden needle over the map, Red pondered how a broken clock is right twice a day. Tears gripped his eyes and he slammed a fit onto the map. A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled tightly. Red stubbornly pushed the Bram's hand away, drying his face with a cloth, sadness in his jittery movements. He looked downward to the map, face flushed with depressed pride. "Who do they pray to?" Red asked. "The slaves, why do they pray to the bringer of dawn?" "Isn't it obvious?" Bram spoke. "The people call you their savior because you keep their bellies full. Every daily ration reminds them of their god, the god they've made of you." "I am a monster, nothing but a horrid, ugly beast." "Some more than others." "But me, a god?" "You deserve such a title." "I deserve a break," Red began rubbing his aching chest, massaging his throat. "Deserve a night with a good cigar." "Did you not mean for this?" "What?" "You got the empire you so desired." "I'm a monster, Bram. I sold my brother's soul off at cheap price, and for what, to be called a king by those who wish to suck my cock for their advantage!" "Free them from it, then." "No, I love their praise, it's delicious to my ears, but too sugary for my diabetes." "What is the problem, then?" "I'm tired, very tired. Exhausted of all the sex, drink, and glory," he groaned, peering up to Bram. "Do you pity me?" "As the beggar to the passerby," replied Bram, pacing along the table. "The shadow of your empire is vast, and thousands live under it willing to cast their lives down in your name." "What is man?" "Weak." "What is man if he is not happy?" "Ambitious to seek it." "The crowd wishes to bow down at my feet," Red sighed, running a calm finger along the map, for the land was his. "Others either wish to kiss my feet or to spit on them. It's been like this for decades, but now even more noticeable, more irritating. I don't feel enjoyment from as I once did." "Spend a day with the people," said Bram. "And do what?" "Strengthen your image. Kiss a baby's forehead." "Be a man of the people." "Ain't that what you were?" "It is what I am," grumbled the king Red as he forced himself up from the table. He had grown fatter and healthier in the face, and ugly wrinkles had thickened under his eyes. "My loyalty is to the cause, and I am seeing it through to glory—this is the new world order, and damn you if you think I've forgotten about the people." Bram ignored the bark and placed a hand on the skull hanging in front of the table, deeply in thought. "That is what remains of man under the heel of my boot," the king remarked. "Man is but a shell of himself. He is dirty, unclean and sinful, yet reborn with the blood of the living dead." "And out of the barrel of a gun." "You're smart, Bram. Just like me, only more so." "Just how many guards have you requested?" "Last night, I had but the one. I'll need four more—for day and night." "Is it with the slave's prophecy?" "I worry not about my welfare," Red said, yet his old man's posture betrayed his tongue as he walked to Bram, his lungs exhaling nervous breath. "I worry not about assassins, but of enemies hiding in friends." "Ignore the slave, for he is what he is because he is weak." "He spoke of a king much like me." "You are a god; that's an insult." "I know of one religion in which the god and the victim are the same, yet my story is much equal. I long for more conquest, but my bones tire. For years I've spearheaded the cause, but to what end?" "Isn't the empire an end in it of itself?" "I desire rest." "You've earned glory." Red reached the skull and pulled on the string, bringing it close to his face, touching eyebrows. The feeling was giant and exciting, a rush of hot blood throughout his aged body. "Who is this?" "A weak man crushed by the stronger." "Was he popular, despised, or a loner?" "You can't tell." "What separates this skull from others?" "Nothing." "From me and you?" Bram remained silent, walking past the skull and towards the end of the tent, pacing slowly, however his intent to leave was unconscious. "Flesh, is the answer," Red spoke, releasing the skull and grabbing his chest. "I expect my new guards to be of the highest caliber; how fares your brother?" Bram remained a second hesitant to speak. The years spent conquering lands beyond Smith's Ferry had taken a toll on his health. He was no longer a mortician, rather, a willing pawn in the king's hands. Much of what had been southern Indiana laid under Red's nose, separated into four provinces with a man governing each. It was the holy kingdom of the cause that Red and his brethren had long desired, and had now achieved. Bram had received a slim but noble patronage from his proximity to the king in the form of a post as tax assessor, contemptuously referred to as the town's tax farmer, thief of coin and grim reaper of the plebs. It was the whisper of here and there that much of the remaining money stuck like glue to the fingers of those in charge of its appropriation. Such whispers fueled the everyday worker to rebel with pitchfork every month or two, but such pockets of resistance were sporadic, too few and far in between. But no man would dare lay hand on Bram. His post was too powerful; his collection of taxes was meant to fund the heavy military, the free food rations, and the free entertainment. The years following Red's concentration of power had meant concentration of willpower. The household, the workplace, and the school yard had become political tools. The art of war was translated to the art of peace. As he pondered the ways in which Red had kept peace within his borders through force and the seductive persuasion of propaganda, Bram noticed Red's cheeks newly wet with tears. "Your brother, how does he fare?" "My brother is the same pig as usual." "How fares his town?" "Piggish, but plentiful." "Had he the balls to execute the rebel leaders?" "Dead!" "How killed?" "Crucified." "Good," said Red. "Gary's a pig, a loyal one that oinks when told to jump." "You need not worry," said Bram. "The governors are loyal. None would slash you with a knife when your back is turned." "And if they hide their true feelings?" "You need not worry," Bram said. "The revolt is crushed, stomped by the heel of a boot. Your reign is supreme, your cause just, and your kingdom forever." "Your words calm me, yet in this game of knives it's best to have a share of cards. You're armed?" Bram lightly tapped the belt around his waist. "Worry not about dumb governors—Drake, Ray are too blind and my brother struggles with limp dick." "I will have games planned for the coliseum, see that they are fulfilled." "And invite the governors?" "Request that they assemble teams of fighters to bring as delicacies." "May I ask the purpose?" "Fate rams its dick through my health." "How long have you been sick?" "We all grow old, yet some faster than others," Red wiped dry his teary face and walked away from the skull. "I lack a heir to the throne, that much is true." "Your nephew!" "Consumed with love by his Irene." "But he is blood." "Cleon lacks the thickness of dick," spat Red, a vein of rage building in his throat. "I grow old with my victory so young. The games will prove which man, which governor is the most fit to rule as I." "To protect the peace with stains of blood spilled for both spectacle and test of strength?" Red nodded. Bram nodded and much lowered his head, bowing to the master of south Indiana. "I will see to it." "My light quickly fades, Bram," Red moaned, beginning to walk towards the skull once more. "I will go out with a bang." "A fat bang." Arriving at the hung skull, Red grabbed it by the jaw with his fat paw and lifted it to his face, enjoying a gaze into the eyeless holes of his brother. "A weak man," he said. "Destroyed by the stronger." ---- The thrill was alive, burrowed somewhere in the blues of the cloudy sky, waiting to be set free. A cloudy day, birds in this part of the state on their migration. The birds had first come the day after his surrender, and then had come the crows in their place, dark devils with crooked claws. A gang of crows watched, perched on nearby trees, and sometimes they circled around the muddy courtyard. Were they visiting for the crops, growing yonder under the sun? He had hoped so the first week. But now he knew better. Nolan glanced at the crows. He knew why the crows cawed so early in the day. The crows eyed his flesh, and they stared at the two cadavers on the ground, waiting to be put in the dirt. He was their pallbearer, their gravedigger. The two men had been alive the day before, but bedridden. Couldn't remember their names. Remembered they'd been bedridden for the past week. Nolan had been their caretaker, nurse, a hand to check their pulse every now and then. He would give them a good grave, and see that it was a clean burial. Fitted with the rags of a white shirt, now dirtied with mud and sweat, Nolan resumed working the wet soil with a shovel. Sweat lined his brow, he'd been working through the morning. He had awakened with a bit of a stomach ache. A sort of unfamiliar hurt shuddered his gut, growing with each heartbeat. A hurt, something of lost pride, strength robbed, unsure by what. Nolan sighed and rubbed his ass, his bottom still hurt where it had been shot a long time ago. It would make for a childish momento, but only now did he realize how dangerous such an injury could have been. It was the thought about what could've ''been that now scared him. Shovel in hand, Nolan continued digging through the muddy ground. A strong rain shower had come through last night, breaking the seven month drought. The drought had scared most people. There had been a handful of fights inside Smith's Ferry, over water rations, but nothing that had amounted to a real riot. Word of the unrest had come to Nolan's ears from the slaves, dwellers of the huts in the fields. They'd heard it from the people downtown. Word had taken days to travel to the campground. A vast forest and fields of crops and corn separated the campground from downtown like a golden fence, a golden wall. He thought he could brave it the first week. It was none too popular an idea. The father and his daughter had first refused. Then Nolan had asked his own friends, but they were too tired to give a damn. He blamed their thirst and hunger for them ignoring him. The military folk had all refused, except Amanda at first. She hesitated before refusing. Nolan most missed the green youngster of a soldier, Joe, a real needle in the haystack. Poor sucker had lost his shoulder, last time he'd been seen. But he wasn't going to think about that now. He hadn't had to wait long before somebody tried to brave the golden wall. Nolan had figured that one of the weaker ones would do it, the slaves long indentured, so he was surprised when he saw three men, strong new arrivals, charge the surrounding fields of corn. The sun had been hot. Their blood had been hot. Malcolm had organized it, and Hector and Gorden, the officer and the private, were playing follow the leader. The three had dashed around, zigzagging and taking sharp turns, the warden going crazy—"Get that sum'bitch. Take them alive!" If they hadn't totally hated each other before, then the escape was what did it. He remembered how Malcolm tripped Hector and Gordon by their feet in an attempt to leave them for dead, to buy himself time to escape, the men cursing their disgraced sergeant, from his family to his ancestors, and then they caught up to him and took him down in a dogpile. When the wardens had caught up, there wasn't too much catching left to do. Hot blood. Nolan wiped hot sweat off his face, passed a hand through his gritty hair, and let out an exhausting gasp of air. Nolan kept shoveling and laughed. Underneath, there would be harder dirt to dig up. He had to block out emotion, the unfamiliar hurt. This was a new hole that he was digging, third one in a week. A lot had changed since the first week. The groans and moans of protest had quelled, and the new cows had become accepted into the herd for slaughter. The winter trees, plagued with frost and dry leaves, had disappeared, the trees had grown green with fruit, food had been harvested, and the trees had grown brown with the new winter sun. The first week, Nolan and his friends had been taken to the huts, given instructions, told to eat soup, piss in the cesspit, work the fields, and sleep. A shower every two weeks, cold and quick, in a nearby stream. Same clothes for months. No more had Nolan heard the growls of the undead. No more, no more. No more of anything. He really missed television. Would lick the dirt off a boot for a book to read, a Playboy to skim. He knew the closest thing to entertainment was in the nightly quarrels. Nolan would work a little more, dig a little deeper, kept his heart beating till slumber. Had to finish the hole. Had to finish the hole, and now it was about three feet deep. Had to double that. Widen it a little ways. As he dug deeper, a little faster, Nolan recalled a memory from childhood. Remembered having a little doggy. Had put him to bed with the bigger dog. Pa had said it would help them bond. Next morning, the little pup stood up to the mutt and had his throat bitten. Nolan took in a few breaths. Time, time was of the essence. ''But not for me, he thought. He had been a young man, but callus had overtaken his hands. He had owned shoes, but bloody cuts and scars plagued his feet. Had a strong stature, but now had a chest so frail that the bumps of his ribs were visible, his flat belly exposed where the shirt was torn. Had a pretty face, but that was gone, now a sick outline of thinned cheekbones. The pants he wore, double-tied around his waist, worn and torn, caked with mud. Needed water, but already had his ration at breakfast. Needed breakfast, but he had already had a soup the night 'fore. He would feed his belly with more. His friend would have some to give. Lyle Jackson was still with him, and that mattered most to the broken, starved body shoveling a new grave. Nolan stopped shoveling. He glanced at the bodies of the men, licked his lips. The hole was finished. He could see the dried, yellowed bones of the grave's former inhabitant. The grave would have to be shared, then. To be or not to be. He tried to avoid stepping on the bones. Found himself being watched by an eyeless skull. He struggled to remember who it had been. Someone from the first month. A soldier, perhaps, now loyal to the mortal earth. Nolan thought him a sergeant, or a captain, and laughed. Shovel in one hand, Nolan bent down and picked up the skull, holding it far so he could peer, stare deeply, perhaps intently, into the eyeless holes. He understood that something was looking back at him, meeting his gaze, in the eyeless holes, a taste of fate, something of legends, of the supernatural. He set the skull back into the grave. The two cadavers were waiting for him. These were soldiers, those originally garrisoned in the town, made slaves after overthrow. Nolan climbed out the hole, shoved the bodies into the grave. Stood upright and told himself he would remember this day, knowing that it too would pass. He saluted the dead and began shoveling dirt onto the grave. ----The daylight waned and blackened, decomposing into a nightly sky of thin clouds and dim stars. The campground was composed of a series of low, makeshift huts made from scrap metal and wood. An olive green tent solely stood on the right of the huts. A dirt trait, faded in the high grass, marked the entrance and exit. Thick walls of corn surrounded the compound. At the olive green tent, a fat scarecrow overlooked the camp, ugly with possessive eyes. An owl keeping watch. A low winter sun hovered overhead. In the moonlight, a growing cemetery rested alongside the huts. Six graves marked, a wooden cross on each, forming two rows. Each cross had its own age, wear and tear. The fresh one that Nolan burrowed was thick, strong wood. It was a new row he was starting. A fire had begun to grow in the center of the huts. The peasants, blind slaves, all of them, attracted to the fire like moths to light. At one of the huts, Lyle stood in the distance, a hole in his gut filling with anger, fear of the fire. Wondered, did that make him a caveman, or Frankenstein, to be afraid of fire. He loathed the campfire. Loathed it every night. Ever since it had begun to be a daily occurrence the month prior. Last month, there had been a blood moon, the sky bleeding red, and the slaves had grown restless. A certain dozen had grown mad. None of them could sleep without howling to the moon, pleading for mercy, to be freed from their shackles. They were all soldiers, Lyle learned from his ears, that had been booted by the Smith family. Soldiers placed there as garrison, as had been at the high school. But Rockefeller, the devil, had had other plans. That much had been true. A voice called his name. "You fear him?" "A little too much," said Lyle. "Did you fear him, a year or so ago?" "Not when I was armed, I knew I's could beat him," Lyle said. "I fear him, now, even more than I fear you." Nolan laughed, slapping his friend on the soldier. They embraced, grabbing each other's forearms, pressing tight. "You're getting fatter," he said, tightening one last grip on Lyle. "Why ain't you stay in the grave?" "With those boys, you kidding?" "They were good workers." "What were their ranks?" "Don't matter, don't care." Nolan walked on, laying the shovel against the hut's wall. Liked seeing his friend like this, angry with hot fury underneath his skin. He found himself smiling, a sensation of life. The first months were torture, Lyle shut up in the fields with dull glee, ignoring life, himself becoming a part of the fields. Nolan had been pained at the sight. Knew that his friend was on the edge of something, of a cliff, slipping into abyss of no return. A no man's land for the soul. "You do that gravedigging good." Nolan smiled, cocking an eyebrow. "I had practice." "We both did." "I buried my pa, say when I was about seventeen." "How'd he go?" "Took one too many viagras," said Nolan, and Lyle broke into a fit of laughter. The hut was tall and sturdy, but had aged. The metal roof had rusted orange, and the dirt floor had grown green with weeds. The wooden walls were soggy, damp from yesternight's rain. Inside was a man, bald and lazy, laying on the ground floor. "That boy Derek," Nolan said. "He kick the bucket?" "Hoping so." Next second, the bald man started snoring, thick and ugly snorts like a pig. "He work today, yet?" "Him?" asked Lyle, focused, honing in on the slave celebration. "Slept in." "What a moron." "Yeah, he's a roach." "That campfire going on is really something else." "Bet it is." "You betting to go see it?" "Full. Ain't about that barbecue life." "You get the dinner soup?" Lyle scoffed, blowing his lips. "Ain't eat since last night. I'm full, full of exhaustion, want to sleep, but can't. You know how it is, can't sleep for the life of me." "Is it nightmares?" "No, fool. The hot sweats." "Hot sweats?" "Blood's boiling inside me, getting hot." Lyle cracked his neck, stretched his back, and released a grunt. "I'm waiting on something." "Something?" "Maybe someone, dunno." "The warden, you waiting for her?" "Waiting for her to come wipe my ass!" Derek shouted, sounding less like a pig and more like a cackling witch. "Bring me that soup, yeah, the soup. Am so thirsty, I get first bite." He looked to Lyle. "You're still at it with the waiting game?" "Go back to sleep, fool." "Been standing there since I hit the hay, two hours?" "Want me to punch your lights out, thug?" "Come on, Jacky," Derek said mockingly. "What you waiting on, some ghost? "A lover," Nolan said, "most definitely." He began to rub his temples, walked out the hut, faced the campfire, a growing mass of skeletons surrounded the fire, howling and crying. He couldn't blame much the poor slaves. They finally had something to play with, like bored dogs with a new bone. About three layers of a crowd had formed around the fire. The outer layer was of starstruck men, eyes sunken into their skulls, but reanimated by the fire's glow. The middle layer was of men hooting and howling, crying to the moon, beating on the dirt with sticks and stones. Nolan felt upset for them, and he saw two familiar faces among them, Hector and Gordon. The inner layer was a few skeleton-men, surrounding a tall man, his back arched ugly and bent, a crown of dry twigs upon his head. Nolan, under the moonlight, could make out the man's face painted red like an Indian, an excited bloody red in the glow of the hot fire. Nolan looked to Lyle. The two's eyes met. "That a king?" "In they's eyes, he is." "Since when?" "They crowned him last night." "Ain't remember." "It's King Kush," Derek mumbled. "Who is that down there?" begged Nolan the question. "Don't matter," said Lyle, grumbling under his selfish pain, "and I don't care." ---- "We are the chosen ones, the angels of dawn. A red moon rises, a blood sky appears. We call upon ye, dawn. The chosen ones, angels of dawn, call upon ye, the red. The moon rises, we rise. The dawn appears, we appear, the chosen angels of he, the bringer. We call upon ye, bringer of dawn," The slave king chanted, the skeleton guard around him hooting and clapping. A skeleton soldier threw fresh dust onto the fire, its glow growing, cracking like cannons. The slave king danced in place, swinging his arms as if swords, and the gathered crowd roared in delight. The fire grew, hungry like a beast, the skeletons twirled around the flames, their shadows jumping around the surrounding trees and crops, wolves on the prowl, hooting like coyotes. The slave king, dancing and bobbing, joined Hector, putting one arm over his neck, and the two joyfully chanted along. "The bringer of dawn!" Hector shouted. "We call upon ye, the red!" "The red sky, a red dawn!" "It's a circus," Nolan said to Lyle. "A mad circus." "You tell him that." "They've gone mad, all of them." "They was already mad," said Lyle, pointing to the slave king and his dancing partner. "Now they's just showing it, can't contain themselves anymore." Lyle had grown thinner since the first weeks of slavery, a man indentured to the earth. A rough, leathery skin covered his face, his ears drooped, eyes tainted with dry wrinkles. A man tired, having grown frail, his pride defeated, a dying light in his eyes. For weeks on end, he had spent his evenings standing outside the hut, waiting, lingering like a dog for his man, expecting a visit. A lover, ''Nolan grinned. "Madder than you, Jacky?" "Madder than me, even." Derek snorted. Lyle barely smiled. "Go join them, punk." "Join us," the slave king barked, "brotherly angels of the red corn, join us, you three. The dawn watches, strict, strict. Join us, don't be cold feets, late to the party." "Late to the feast," Hector said, a former shell of the man he was. A ripped cloth around his neck and belly covered his thin chest, sad and bony. His face dry and twisted, overwhelmed with thick beard. "A feast over the red dawn, come here, no fear!" "Free beer, come here!" barked the slave king, his skeleton dancers pointing to the three men with their bony fingers, soulful eyes, enslaved by the beat of sticks and stones, cackles of witches. Nolan watched with uncertain terror. "He's mad." "Free beer," Derek said. "Not you, too." "I don't want beer, don't want nothing." Lyle grabbed the shovel from the wall and walked towards the fire. "I'm hungry and tired, is all." "No fear," laughed the slave king, dancing slowly towards him, his skeleton dancers separating to form a path. "A dream, yes, came to me, rain, rain. A dawn is to rise, for when the sky burns with fire, the flames of morning, and the pale prince will cry, then shall the siblings rival, a duel ushering forth the end to hunger, the fall of the false god, ye." "You'll shut up, or I'll make you." "Make him," Hector cried, "make him, make us." "Make us," said the crowd. "Can't sleep, y'all too noisy," Lyle held up the shovel, pointing menacingly at the slaves, poor and filthy. "Have some decency, yeah? It's like this every day, worse 'cuz of this bozo," he said, waving the shovel at the king. "You, bozo." "Protect the man," murmured the crowd. The slave king, stood firm, and Hector blocked him with his body, shielding his light. "Pardon him," he said. "Why?" asked the king. "He's a criminal, it's his nature." "That so?" Lyle rested the shovel on his shoulder. "Is it your nature, yeah, to be a hypocrite?" "Hypocrisy!" shouted Hector. The crowd of slaves trembled with a grumbling roar, a passionate growl. Most of the men were half-naked, pale and frightened, covered in the day's mud and the night's rashes. Off to the other huts, masses of onlookers watched on, a few ladies and stray men, little children, a lucky few wearing clothes. "You fear him," said Gordon, lost eyes looking to Lyle, out of his senses. "You fear the bringer of dawn, so typical." "A new dawn, fresh red," spoke the slave king, his voice cracking like a whip. "Fear not the bringer, yet fear the deceiver, the false man, he who threatens children, for my men, this is judgement's word!" "Where's the warden?" Nolan asked Derek, both watching from their hut. "She'll be in a few." "When you need her, she ain't around." Just then, the two tired men saw the light of a torch from the olive green tent. A little bird had told him the tent was made of man flesh, and Nolan believed them. The warden, a bear-chested lady, a crucifier of man, was said to be a demon, a spawn of Cain. "Why would you want a bitch like ''that near you?" "To break it up, break up the fight." "It'll be a fat minute," said Derek. "She's got to find her panties first." Derek struggled out the hut, rubbing his hands along his neck, those hands, hands Nolan knew were now clean, but stained with blood. "Ain't no fight, what fight?" "You'll see," Nolan said, walking over to the fire. Derek, hating to be alone, followed. The two traveled until where Lyle stood. A thick row of onlookers watched from the huts, paining Nolan, for the pale children and parents watched in terror. Lyle wore no shirt but the skin on his back. A thick, vein scar stretched across the width of his back, his chest covered in sweaty hair, masking a set of fearsome flesh wounds. A discomfort for sleeping, or a little resting nap, Nolan could tell, and had told. "Why don't you leave us alone?" said Hector. "We will," said the slave king. "I hate you," said Lyle, and the crowd laughed. "I could tell," said Hector. "Air it out, man. Air out your grievances." "Let's cool it," said Gordon, the slave soldier, a man now bald, scratching his scalp, dead lice under his fingernails. "Hate you so much," said Lyle. "Hate your disrespect, hate your attitude, hate your lungs that keep you breathing. Hated your friends." "But now we're even," said Hector. "We're even, same punishment." "Hell." "I give you a month," said the slave king, looking to Lyle. "And I give you, oh ye, until the new dawn, my Hector!" "I'm honored," said Hector. "I'm pissed," said Lyle, stepping forward. Hector made a face, and was unprepared when Lyle swung at his mouth. The butt of the shovel made perfect contact. Hector dropped to the ground, holding his nose, howling in pain. He didn't try to swing back. The crowd of slaves gasped in curiosity. "You didn't have to do that," said Nolan. "He deserved it," said Lyle. "I been meaning to give him what his friends gave me, yeah, for a while now." "Feel better?" "Most in a long time," said Lyle, noticing the torchlight in the warden's tent. "He's an idiot, a smart idiot—say, officer, you know what's the great equalizer?" "A punch to the face," said the slaves. "No." "A punch to the gut," said Gordon. "No, and ''I asked the officer." "The warden," said Hector, spitting. "Close, fool," said Lyle. "It's death, and the warden's coming. Gonna collect our names, good. And you, queen, you's wrong." "Wrong!" said the slave king. "Not a month. Give him a day," said Nolan. "Long enough for the warden to chop off their heads." "Put them on a stick," said Derek. "Warden don't play. You think you're funny, Jacky?" "Hold your tongue," said Lyle. "I'm taking care of long overdue business. Now, queen, who you working for?" "I'm king." "Queen, who you working for?" "The bringer of dawn," said the king. "A dawn will rise to wash out the false god, and they say a woman dressed in white shall come, and rise up the flag of a new god, soon, soon." "The bringer of dawn," repeated Lyle. "Rockefeller in a dress, nice. Ain't seen his ass in years." "Back off," said Hector, "with the insults." "He your god, then?" "Where does the soup come from, man?" Hector pleaded, attempting to stand. "The protection, the life source—the charity of the bringer." "He's enslaved you all." "We've earned these chains," Hector said, stirring a cheer from the crowded slaves, a moan from the onlookers. "It's our doing, and when we are equal, we'll be released." "But now we're dirty," said Gordon. "Still dirty, very dirty." "Unclean," said the king. "A world of light, I see the fall of the false man, and the real evil. When the two moons meet soon, soon. He must know, he must know!" The slave king pointed a bony finger to Lyle, and Derek laughed. "I ought to take you down with me," said Lyle, unsure of the prophecy, but readying the shovel. "Unclean!" Gordon hooted. Before he could reason, the skeleton king dashed forward, running, hopping over Hector, breaking into a gallop, a strong horse, well-fed stallion, and crashed into Lyle's chest. Both rolled across the ground, Lyle's head bobbing, his neck spraining against the dirt. The slave king had him in a bear hug, pressing his hands over Lyle's back, squeezing like a python, drooling over his face. "Unclean!" Gordon hooted. "Get off!" Hector shouted. "Run, fire out, the warden!" "Very unclean!" Gordon hooted. The crowd of slaves began to disperse, a hand clearing a cloud of smoke, and the onlookers retreated into their huts. Lyle, attempting to pry the king's body from his, to no avail, scrambled his hands over the man's shoulders, then his neck, seeking to strangle him. But as he squirmed, the slave king put his lips to his ear, breathed hot, and sniffed his face. "I was right," said the slave king. "Coward," muttered Lyle, and then a whistle was blown, breaking the nightly air. "You wanted a fight, so fight me." A light approaching nearby. The warden. The slave king leaned off, eyeing down, Lyle pinned. "We cross into the mountain pass at night," he said. "You wait, I'll go forward and make a fire in the darkness, wait for you. I'll be waiting." A scared tremble ran down Lyle's face, his cheeks quivered with fright. Nolan and Derek grabbed the king by the legs, his calves bruised and bony, blood coming off in their hands, pulling him off Lyle. There remained standing Hector and Gordon, two skeletons, made thin by hunger and paranoia, losing the will to fight. The two were motionless until the warden's whistle released another cracking blow, shuddering them, and they hurried, removing their clothes, slapping the flames, killing the fire. The center of the compound sank into black. Lyle watched them with bloody sadness, fear in his eyes. "All right," said Nolan, grabbing him by the arm and thrusting him on his feet. "You expect the old girl to give you a kiss on the cheek?" "She ought to thank me for taking out the trash," said Lyle. "There, there she is now." The warden had finally gotten to the ground, her torchlight illuminating the smoke-clouded blackout. Where he could see her face, Lyle saw her snout growling, huffing like a grizzly, and he swore smoke was coming out her ears. "A new dawn," said the slave king. "You 'fraid of death, queen?" "Not really." "I'm not, either," said Lyle, voice shaking. "I've already died." "Then you'll be used to it a second time." The slave king smiled, and as the warden approached them for arrest, Lyle felt himself return it. ---- "You ingrates!" The vileness of Irene gripped the field, gasping breath out of throats of witnesses. Seven naked men were lined up on the dirt. The sun hovered above as tribute paid. The warden was fit with bull's testicles of rage, and as Lyle stood in the damp air of morning new, exposed to the skin, he could not dare keep eyes off her face, so feminine, yet barking mad until red, nor could his eyes uncleanse themselves of her well-rounded breasts, fit perhaps with teeth sharper than her eyebrows. "Ingrates, unworthy of birth!" A crowd of slaves watched from afar. Behind the prisoners was the field of corn, and upright among the dark stalks stood the skeleton of a crucified man, executed for crimes faded in the past. "Once more you prove your true natures," growled Irene, the warden of the slave camp, conditional lover of the king's nephew. "Sub-human rats." "Dogs," said one guard. "Pigs," said another. "Why do they yet stand?" Irene asked, and a dark bird crowed. "They serve heavy purpose," said Cleon, face aged but fought over by manhood and boy. It was the uncommon necessity to end a criminal slave's life to instill order, but not erratically as to dry the slave supply. Two of the slave men panted with laughter. "Three of us are better off on the cross," said Gordon. "Like all others who mock the bringer of dawn." "The bringer of food?" sniffled Nolan with a chuckle. "The bringer of pain, the bringer of ''piss to quench your thirst?" "Hold your tongue, slave, or see it cut off!" Irene barked once more, and Cleon rode against her, resting palm on her shoulder to tame the beast's mouth. "Calm." "These slaves are dirty and filthy bugs, why not—?" "They will see equal punishment," he told her. "Crucifixion." "A day in the cesspit?" "A week working the sewers!" The slaves gasped, yet the guards remained hardened with silence, nor did Cleon's stoic facade waver, yet Nolan's face did tense up at the thought of working the wall. To be exposed nude for embarrassment was humiliating down to the balls, to wad a day in the thick of slave shit was another thing, yet working the wall was a death certificate sealed and signed. "No!" cried Hector and Gordon. "Get on your knees," Irene gently muttered, plague laced in her breath. "Not the sewers," Hector groaned as he knelt, and pity came upon him from Nolan. Nolan, flustered and uncomfortable, peered leftward to Lyle and caught a glance. The man's belly was deflated, his chest depressed, and thighs thin and feet swollen. There were no flames of spirit in his eyes. His face was that of a man worn out by years of toil, accepting of failure, willing to submit. Beside him to the right stood a common man, withered to bone and tears, then stood Hector, Gordon, and the slave king prominently at the end of the line. The withered slave who stood beside Nolan was a reflection of what he felt, deep in his breast, a dying light in the dreary tract of countryside, for the man wore deep, dark lashes on skin and a wooden cross around neck, his eyes relishing last hopes. "Not the sewers, my God!" Hector wailed, throwing himself at the feet of his masters, sadness overwhelming his throat. "We don't deserve it, please, I beg of you!" "The slave kisses your feet," said a guard to Irene. "A sympathetic gesture." "Pathetic," she growled. "The slaves are too valuable to be killed," Cleon said. "You burden me with slaves and deny your love her entertainment." "I give you enough at night, my dear," said Cleon, flapping a hand to the guards so that they come to pick the slave Hector off his shoes. "Your entertainment is flaccid." The slave crowd roared with laughter. Nolan, tired by the patient arrival of ideal punishment, began to wonder about his estranged feelings of joy. So long had passed since last his tongue felt sugar, that his skin felt clean and healthy, his body strong, yet now weak and strongly acquainted with weight of chains. As the man prayed to his side, Nolan lost himself in the laughter, a hot laugh building in his gullet, wanting to join in, yet then was havoc cried. "Slaves!" Cleon cried, shoving the guards away and wildly stomping Hector in the chest, knocking him off his knees. "I bargain for easing of your punishment for fighting under my watch, and you laugh, slaves?" "We do not, master," said Lyle. Cleon nodded, calmly recollecting his wits, trembling with lingering rage. "You seven are to receive a quarter of your rations removed." "Master?" said the common man. "Speak." "We laugh at you." With the morning sun sprinkling new yellow sky, Nolan watched as Cleon's face was overtaken by underlying rage, something of habit for the young man to be sensitive to the slightest of blows, even from those of slaves beneath him. The way his upper lip curled, his nose wrinkled, eyes became pale, as did face, were the colors of the master's uncontrollable rage, only to be quenched with Irene's satisfaction. Such had been life for the past months since Cleon had assumed the mantle of slave master, or officer of labor, through gift from his patriarch, the rumors being that such a gift was to meet Cleon's wish of title, yet to avoid placing him in higher position requiring a degree of competence instead of blood line. Nolan had witnessed the rise of this man Cleon, a freshly born calf in uniform suckling still at the breast, yet making moves to be a breadwinner in the eyes of higher men. At first called a scoundrel, he proved false the notion in his early days as master by crucifying unruly slaves, branding them traitors, earning him reputation as a death dealer. The past months had seen him burn his fire with ever-strengthening flames of ambition, for it was rumored that he sought hands on his uncle's crown. Yet now, Cleon remained of low position. "Crucify them," he snarled, and Irene smiled, the plague in her teeth. "We shall," said the guards. "But we are valuable!" Hector shouted. "Silence, slave," said Irene. "He can buy slaves of twice your manhood for half the price." "Crucify them in the public square," Cleon ordered. "As infidels to the cause?" "As entertainment for your eyes especially, my dear." "Oh, Cleon," Irene gushed with passion, "you are too kind!" "You are evil," spoke the common man standing beside Nolan, his voice low and bold. "Evil and cruel." "The slave speaks uncommanded," Irene said. A rising sun awakened the field, and the birds began to caw. The cross-wearing man, emaciated and broken, with face dry of tears, long having been exhausted, took a step forward, lurching, his skeleton arms struggling to latch onto Cleon before a guard dropped him with a blow of metal rod to the head. A pitiful groan echoed from the crowd of onlookers. "Go to hell, slave." "Hell!" The slave shouted mockingly as two guards propped him up by the shoulders, and Nolan's eyes followed as Cleon drew blade from hip. "I will not be ridiculed by slaves." "Hell, you tell me to go to hell?" "Guards, hold him steady." "Hell is empty, and the devils are here!" With a brief grab of the prisoner's head, Cleon brought the blade up, slashed downward, and with a squeal of glee from Irene, met the mark on the throat, spilling his blood onto earth, life fleeing his thin corpse before being hauled away. "What a show," Irene remarked. "Worthy of an audience." "His die was cast," Cleon said, drawing towards his lover. "Let the slaves be reminded that their labor is destiny, and that that destiny lies not in their hands any longer." A guard approached him with question. "When will you have the execution in the square?" "Tomorrow." "Wish me to consult your uncle?" "Let him find out through his minions when done wiping their mouths of his cock." He looked to Irene, who watched the six remaining naked slaves being led away by guards. "Cleon?" "Come, my dear, we have business to discuss." ---- =Issues= Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues